A spy's Heart Never Bleeds
by solidshoe
Summary: A chilling Bond tale that takes place in late 70's
1. Three Daughters too many

A Spy's Heart Never Bleeds  
  
  
  
  
  
A James Bond Thriller  
  
By Jacob Shaw  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Part One-Blast from the Past  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I. | Three Daughters Too Many  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It wasn't all together unusual that Christine Bond Stewart, or Giggles, as her friends called her, would be alone on the ice behind Redmond Cathedral. It was late December, and the winter cold seemed to be hitting all of Europe in a rather unnecessarily brutal way. Christine was, thanks to the stingy cold, alone, and free to skate under the Breast of Chalice that welcomed the members of ice. Many times, Christine had stared up into the bronze eyes of the head that sat atop the breast, wondering if, by some sort of magic, the figurine could see her, could watch her elegant skating and judge the ramifications of it. It seemed that all old Chalice was good for these days, was providing a berth for the birds and snow. And if the figure was watching, he was sure to see Christine fall many, many times. She was, to be sure, elegant, though because she hat fits of giggles every so often, she was prone to loss concentration and fall on her hind parts.  
  
  
  
  
  
She would of course giggle again, looking up into the bronze iced over eyes that had seen her fall. She could imagine Chalice laughing inside his mighty bronze chest, and so she laughed too.  
  
  
  
  
  
Christine Bond was a good skater. Not figure skater quality, but about as good as a person without training, could be expected to be. When she was not laughing and falling, when she decided that it was time to be serious, she could, and on many occasions did, stun them all. Father Dupont Atkins, of the Redmond squire, had even hinted at throwing together a small team of sorts, of which Christine would be captain. She'd giggled to that, saying "I do it for the fun, father. Always for the fun."  
  
  
  
  
  
Well, today she was alone, unless one counted the Bust of Chalice. The high winter sun grazed the white powdery sand, and though the sun was present, it was bloody cold. Christine dressed warmly, with a heavy ruffled wool coat and matching sheep's wool hat, with flaps over her ears. Three layers of stockings that were themselves encased in red nylon tights likewise shielded her legs. The chill hit her legs, but Christine could endure it, and she knew that once she got to skate, once she built up rhythm and made a real go of it, she could be sure her legs would amiably heat themselves.  
  
  
  
  
  
And so she walked briskly through the overnight fallings of powdery snow, taking her time as she punched great slices in her wake. Finally, she reached the ice, regarded old Chalice on the opposite side, and then noticed that the old figure couldn't even see today. His entire face was shielded by snow. Christine was truly alone, and feeling a bit saddened by the fact, she barely glided out, a great contrast to the usual sprints she used to get to the middle of the ice.  
  
  
  
  
  
Of course, her mother had thought that it might be vacant as well, and had urged Christine not to go. So cold today, she'd said. So cold that you are sure to catch cold. That was her mother, the usual overprotective mastiff that had the best intentions and entirely the wrong way of going about them. To think, she'd tried to hide Christine's skates! Christine was a young girl, and her mother told her that often, but she was not so young that she should not be able to go to the local church, and her mother had reluctantly agreed. "I'm 16, mother, and besides, what harm could possibly come of me, and in god's house? Besides, ole Chalice is always there to watch me" then came the giggles.  
  
  
  
  
  
And there she was, getting her rhythm and skating seriously, when the sound of fallen snow alerted her to a presence, and span round to face it.  
  
  
  
  
  
A young man, not many years older than her 16, was coming up the forest path. He smiled a confident smile as he pushed his way through the snow. Christine did not know him, guessed he was 19 or maybe even 21, and as he got closer, remarked to herself that he was very handsome. He was obviously not from town, because Giggles knew everyone there was to know.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I say, did I startle you?" The young man asked, standing at the edge of the ice. He didn't dare cross the threshold with those flimsy boots he wore.  
  
"Who are you?" Christine was immediately wary of any person she didn't know. Her mother called it her "special gift", something she was supposed to have received from her father, whoever he was. It was a heightened sense of intuition, and if it was real, it was working remarkably well now.  
  
"Names Guthridge. Stanley Guthridge. Parents are in visiting with family. The Masons, you know them?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Did she know them? By god, she had spent most of her life with Penny Mason. They were the best of friends. Penny had the most marvelous doll collection. She never said she had such a good-looking relative though. Christine would be sure to scold her friend for holding out on such information.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Yes, I know the Masons. Quite well in fact. Are you a cousin to Penny?"  
  
"Ah, good old Penny! Not quite the cousin I would like her to be, I'm afraid. I'm sure she hasn't spoken of me." The guy said.  
  
"And why would that be?"  
  
"Afraid it's to do with some minor squabble that took place back when we were small. I said some things that I had no business to say; I'm afraid, even for a young lad. Old Penny hasn't been warm to me since."  
  
  
  
  
  
That was like Penny Mason. She could hold a grudge for years, it seemed, and Christine was suddenly sorry for the young man. She'd endured some of Penny's fits, and they were never nice.  
  
  
  
  
  
"What brings you up here?" Christine asked with pure eagerness.  
  
"This, I'm afraid," The young man said, pointing to the Bust of Chalice. "Had I known there would be.such a beautiful girl skating, I might have brought nicer clothes, and skates, to be sure."  
  
  
  
  
  
Christine blushed. Pretty, yes, she knew. But never beautiful. No boy had ever paid her that compliment. She suddenly wanted to know more.  
  
"Why are you so interested in old Chalice. Old Chalice with snow on his face!" She started giggling.  
  
"Yes he does look rather silly like that, doesn't he?" The young man reached up and wiped the snow from Chalice's eyes and nose. Now the bronze face was fitted with a white beard and outlying hair. "Old Saint Nick has come to town." The young man said, and Christine couldn't help but laugh.  
  
  
  
  
  
"But why is that old Bust so important?" She asked.  
  
'Oh, sorry. I'm a bit of an archeologist type, I fancy. I like to hunt out old, powerful things. There are presently only ten Busts of Chalice in the world, and to think that I would be lucky enough to find one, in the county of family, well it's quite amazing really."  
  
"Is it worth something? You haven't come to steal Old Chalice, have you? I wouldn't have it. Who else would there be to watch me skate?" She mused.  
  
"Steal, no. But I have seen three of these Busts in my time, this makes the fourth. I pray to find a certain artifact among them. There is legend that, beneath the breastplate, a secret compartment may be found containing rare coins, put there by the modeler Saint Ive Di Chalicea. Who knows? I might get lucky."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Naturally, you would share the wealth. Chalice is, by all accounts, a close friend to me."  
  
"Naturally, I would share anything with a beauty such as yours. Come have a look. We may find the riches together, then there would be no quarrel." The young man said, never faltering his winning smile.  
  
  
  
  
  
And he had called her beautiful again. Surely it meant something to meet such a nice boy by the frozen lake, and perhaps under old Chalice, they would kiss, for young girls often fancy such things. And what this talk of treasures? She couldn't dare hope for a kiss and riches, did she? Whatever the outcome, she was sure that this young man had taken a quick liking to her, as she had him, and she thought nothing of skating over to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
When she got there, he was wiping the snow off of the might bronze bust. Around the neck of Chalice, there stood a bronze pendent etched into the rest of him. It was the shape of twin S's back to back. It seemed to hold the young man's eye.  
  
  
  
  
  
"This is where the fabled treasure is supposed be hidden on one of these busts. Imagine my luck, finding it here."  
  
"Imagine!" Christine said, averting her eyes to the pendent.  
  
"Say, this is your spot. Your pound. You open it. It is there anyway."  
  
"I couldn't. I wouldn't even know of it if you hadn't spoken. And besides, you are the adventurer, you should open it." She said.  
  
"I insist. Old Chalice here, as you have so penned him, is not use to my explorations. It is only right that you should do it." He looked into her eyes then, and it was a hot look. A melting look if ever there was one. How many girls, Christine thought, wouldn't do what this handsome guy asked?  
  
  
  
  
  
She stepped forward and reached for the bust.  
  
  
  
  
  
Not a moment after she turned her head and stepped past the young man, was her head forcibly gripped between two strong arms. Before Christine Bond Stewart could fathom how this could be, the arms turned violently, and her neck was instantly broken. Released, she fell to the snow under Old Chalice, so low that even the old bronze eyes of the figurine could not pray look at what was left of her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The same happened to Margaret Anuran, a young woman of the age 20. She was found in early February, among the students of the Harold Press internship program, who were visiting Our College of Arms, in London. As with the young girl in the country in December, her neck had been perfectly fractured. There was seemingly no reason behind the slaying, and many wondered why a perfectly normal girl of such young age would be the prey of some person who must be a man and who must be a lunatic.  
  
It was certainly a shock to Sable Basilik, chairman of the union, who had seen the young girl only an hour before, in perfectly good health and striking up good conversation with a rather handsome young man. Sable, of course, told all of this to officials, and even went so far as to describe the man. The other members of the internship gave identical descriptions, saying the young man claimed to be an intern of the College, and that he immediately took a fancy to young Anuran. Because no person had seen this young man in Frederick County, where the Stewart girl was killed, there was no reason to suspect that the young man had been in any way involved. Besides, they had ruled that Christine Stewart had broken her neck, the result of a slip on the ice, and since the man had worn gloves, there were no fingerprints to prove otherwise.  
  
This time, the man had had to get his fingers dirty, and the police had a print.  
  
  
  
  
  
Of course, it turned up nothing. Whoever had killed the young Anuran girl, had no priors, and the police were powerless to trace him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Some months later, in august, a third young girl turned up dead, killed in the same manner. Denise B. Thatcher, age 15. Unlike the others, Denise was a resident of the Caribbean, living with her stepfather, her real father unknown. She was found on the sandy beaches among snapping crabs who had done her already dead figure more harm. Her stepfather, having lost her mother only months earlier, could hardly stand it.  
  
  
  
  
  
It is the fashion of many killers to break necks, and it was never decided that, for whatever reason, these three girls should be linked in murder. However, they were linked, and quite cruelly so, their killer a man with fierce vengeance in his heart, and great plans in his brain. First the daughters of his enemy, then the enemy himself. It was simple, and since he'd never be caught, it would work.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
But first, it was time to spring the bait. 


	2. ``Rheinländische Küche´´, Mr. Bond

A Spy's Heart Never Bleeds  
  
  
  
  
  
A James Bond Thriller  
  
By Jacob Shaw  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Part One-Blast from the Past  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
II. | ``Rheinländische Küche´´, Mr. Bond  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
James Bond's palate demanded more of the Kölsch, and he drank down the local brew without hesitation. He supposed that he'd started to drink less in his times, at least before visiting Bonn, Germany. Now it was the Bond of old, the man whose veracity for women was only equaled by his hunger for smokes and drinks. Bond remembered Shrublands, that quiet spa where the tempting allure of healthy living had made Bond rethink his position on life, and had caused him to become as much of a living machine as a working one. He had felt good, to be sure, with the diet and vegetables.  
  
Only the life of a spy, particularly 'this' spy, demanded a bit more than the diets and non-nicotine cigarettes could provide. Bond had realized that he wasn't an alcoholic, not yet anyway, and until he absolutely lost the control over those dandy bottles, he would continue to drink. Matinees would be in order if he were in a completely high mood, and whisky if he was down in the dumps. It seemed these days, James Bond was down often. His treasured housekeeper, May, whom had looked after him for more years than Bond had fingers, had finally gone on and died, the poor woman. May, who had refused to called him sir, but instead added "-s" to ending of most the commanding words. She was perhaps the most precious woman he'd ever known, and he'd gone to the bat for her, taking off as much time as he could to be by her side in her final days. Damned life, it was never easy on the people who needed it to be.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bond sat in Zum Gequetschten, a rather expensive, though highly lauded eatery. He had ordered Pfifferlinge (fried mushrooms and scrambled eggs), with a side of Rheinländische Sauerbraten´´ (a sweet-sour marinated veal stew served with apple sauce). The chef was sure taking his time cooking the stuff up, and in the boring minutes that followed the order, Bond had downed three small cylinders of Kölsch (he positively enjoyed the stuff), and upon seeing an American couple receive their food, and having realized that they had ordered three whole minutes after him, he ordered a fourth cup with a annoying grunt. The waiter took the remark to heart, and understanding that his tip was in jeopardy, immediately ran back to the kitchen to check the status of the order.  
  
  
  
  
  
Two minutes later, his breakfast was served. The food came in healthy proportions, and it was far in excess of what Bond was sure he could eat, having downed the local brew. Damned Germany, it weighed on him. He hated the place; didn't enjoy being there one bit. The customs, the language, the people, they were so bloody different than good London, and while the British had made it his life to travel abroad, unlike with Japan, Russia, or even America, he'd never found solace in Germany. Never. It was his continual nemesis when it came to the missions, and though he was mostly successful there, everything seemed to come at more of a price.  
  
  
  
  
  
Like his current mission. Not two days in Germany and already his eyes were heavy. It was a fatigue of the mind, and it showed on his face. Being in Germany was like wading through heavy mud; it was never easy, and it weighed on a person to the point of exhaustion. One particular annoyance was that Bond could never feel comfortable wearing his Brioni suits in Germany; the people simply stared too hard. So Bond had taken to wearing the silly attire that he saw around him, which mostly consisted of suede vests and tight slacks. Even his hats seemed out of style, and the result was a less than spectacular Bond who was walking the streets.  
  
  
  
  
  
Walter M. Scott, head of Section 'G', had tried to quell Bond's un- enthusiasm for the country.  
  
  
  
  
  
"These Germans have a rich history, James. They've been quite the silly people in the past, but they do have their history."  
  
  
  
  
  
Rubbish, Bond recollected.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bond looked at the food again. Now he wasn't hungry at all. He looked at his wristwatch and saw that he was only three hours until he needed to move. Good, he though to himself. The quicker he got this over with, the faster he could get back to London. He wanted to visit May's grave again, wanted to put another flower or two down on the resting place of his beloved second Mother.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bond summoned his waiter. Now Bond's face was a mask of displeasure.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I shan't be needing this, I'm afraid. Took to long to bring it I imagine, and I've lost my appetite." Bond said, looking squarely into the waiter's eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry if you're evening has been less than satisfactory. I would be happy to bring you another round of Kölsch, on the house." The waiter said, in thick, broken English.  
  
"Yes. Yes that would be fine. But none of these silly cups. I would rather fancy a pint. Could you manage that?" Bond asked sarcastically.  
  
"Yes, sir. A pint, on the house, coming right up."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A pint of the Kölsch would be good on his half empty stomach, making it a full stomach of the good stuff. And damned if he would tip the waiter. That man was lucky that Bond didn't file a complaint. Bond just as soon let the mess go. In three hours he would be required to get serious again. And hopefully in six, he'd be back in the comforting arms of London.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
As it turned out, Bond didn't tip the waiter. Two hours later, and he was less irritable, though he stilled tired of Germany. Bonn, the capital of the country, was just that: country. The expanse of country was hard on the eyes, and for those reasons alone; Bond didn't want to bother with the Stadtbahn (light railway) that flowed through all of Bonn. Thankfully, Bond wouldn't be required to ride the over-ground rails for his interlude with. Richter Steinhaue, but would instead, with the cooperation of Section G, be taking a more expressway en-route.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Cheer up James. I have to live here all year round. You're almost like a child who's messed with the wrong bee hive." Section G head, Walter M. Scott said, chiding 007.  
  
"In that analogy, you're quite right. Everyday I'm here, I feel the pricking on my back. How the hell do you endure, Scott?" Bond asked while sighing.  
  
"James Bond, loyal servant of her Majesty, asking me how the hell I endure. How do we all? Because we're required to, that's how. How else could you explain all you've done, and why you've done it?"  
  
"Yes, but I've only been here three days. You've been here a lifetime. I rather believe that you are living in a place suitably comparable to hell, and you can have it, Scott." Bond said.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They were in Stadtbahn station DT, which stood for Deutsche Telekom Station. In Station DT, the underground railways parted, going all over the countryside. The train they were after was the Stadtbahn out of Reinaue, which started above ground and connected with the DT station, and later went on to the station supporting the foreign ministry of Bonne, station Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt. Station B/AT was solely for the members of the German Foreign Ministry. This secret line was run by railway systems in direct control of the Ministry, who had equipment to handle such a job. They used their command to separate the lines at Station B/AT, and civilian trains were shifted to separate, less stable lines, and the important trains, which carried their members, moved deeper under the ground into more prestigious stations that served all of Germany.  
  
  
  
This was the secret railway used by the higher powers of Germany, and all members of the government were obliged to use the system. The system became known as the Iron Works, and secret as it's riders may have hoped it would be, Section G had knowledge of the secret rails, and even used them from time to time.  
  
  
  
  
  
To do so, they used a Railway Slurp. The slurp was a typical Stadtbahn rail car that was tuned in to the Iron Works secret signals. These signals were only sent to, and received from, specified cars, and the slurps were set up to mimic the secret cars. Thus being so, as long as one had the schedules for the trains, one could ride to and from on the secret lines to anywhere in the country. One could even ride up into the basement of the Foreign Ministry.  
  
In order to make use of the lines, and slurps, Section G had to construct a station of their own, a place where they could offload the undercover trains. It had been blazingly hard to do so under the ever watchful German eye, and it had been slow, hard work. It had, in fact, taken near three years to get underway, but when it was finally finished, it worked like a charm. Agents from Section G used the lines to spy on the Ministry, and they used the slurp system to track all trains and all members aboard them. As long as a person used the Iron Works, they could readily found.  
  
  
  
  
  
Now, Bond was being asked to use the system in order to take out a man named Richter Steinhaue. Steinhaue was an ex-Section G secretary who was attempting to buy his way into the German government. Unfortunate for Section G, Steinhaue was planning to use the information of the Iron Works as his collateral. Section G was sure to loose a vast amount of power in the region with the loss of their Slurp system. The heads of the Ministry already knew about the system; phone taps had proved as much. Luckily, Steinhaue, being a semi-smart man, had not yet divulged the location of Section G's hindering system. He wanted in before he gave the goods, which was what he was preparing to do on that day, in half an hour's time.  
  
  
  
  
  
The men and women of Section G are simply information collectors. They are not deft in the art of bloodshed, though they will kill a man if it need be. Her Majesty's Secret Service, quite pleased with the work being done by Section G, and wanting none of her key members to be soiled by the act of killing, decided to send in a man for whom death could elicit no more surprises.  
  
  
  
  
  
That man was agent 007.  
  
  
  
  
  
So Bond was being asked to slip aboard the incoming train, kill the secretary, and slip back off before the train reached Bundesrechnungshof/ Auswär tiges Amt.  
  
  
  
  
  
A simple conquest, but a bit unwieldy, as Bond was soon to find out.  
  
  
  
  
  
The problem was simply that Steinhaue didn't know he was being set up for the kill. He had no clue of it. Unknown to him, all of Section G was monitored by its head, Scott, and every phone in their homes as well. So they knew what Steinhaue was planning, but because they were absolved of the killing part, they needed a plan for someone else to be encased within the immediate company of Steinhaue and without raising suspicion just long enough for the target to be killed. Steinhaue, having intimate knowledge with the Slurp system, had gone on and signed out a train for himself, set up the workings, and was coming in on that train as they worked. It was a one-man cart, and Bond would need a way onto it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Of course, he won't be stopping here. That would be too easy, James." Scott chided.  
  
"This is silly. Simply stop the car at this station, leave if you must, and I'll handle the rest. Why all this nonsense? The mission doesn't call for it." Bond said, staring at the wet suit in the corner of the office.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Because it might not be as easy as that. This guy doesn't know we're on to him, but who's to say he doesn't have escorts anyway? Or a gun? We stop that train here and he could spread the lot of it with enough bullets to warrant an investigation. I have my orders, James. It must be done in between here and the capital office."  
  
"How long do you suppose it takes to shoot a man? Really, this will be short work. Quick and to the point. Just make sure you have my passports in order." Bond said, becoming annoyed again. "And be bloody sure my pick-up is waiting."  
  
  
  
  
  
"James, James. How you hate this country! And to think, I was sure 007 loved all the countries like he loved his women: as different as night and day, but each ever so sweet." Scott laughed a hearty laugh.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bond was not in the least bit amused. 


End file.
